Splinter Cell: 24
by Shawn Sousa
Summary: Splinter Cell: insert name of game here and 24:the game crossover. R&R just read itPLEASE!
1. Something Big

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN 5:00 AM AND 6:00 AM

EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME.

Pentagon, Washington D.C

5:00:01

5:00:02

5:00:03

5:00:04

Alex Whitmore made his way into the Pentagon dressed neatly in a blue suit carrying a brown leather briefcase. He walked calm and casual until he reached security. There was only one guard on duty at the time, and he recognized Mr. Whitmore. Without delay, the guard shut off the detectors and let Mr. Whitmore pass uninterrupted. Mr. Whitmore gave the security guard a nod and walked past him, anxious to return a favor for an old friend.

Davis Foreman stepped into the men's room eager to relieve himself. As he entered the lavatory he realized that he wasn't alone. There was a tall blonde man in a blue suit looking at himself in the mirror. On the sink counter was a brown leather briefcase. Davis studied it momentarily, it looked expensive, 'Must have cost him a fortune', Davis thought to himself.

The blond man's face looked familiar. Davis was never any good with faces, but that meant that this guy was someone important. Maybe they met at a party; Davis had no time to think. Davis made it to one of the stalls and locked the door behind him.

'Too easy', Whitmore thought to himself. He fixed his hair and walked out of the public lavatory, confident that his mission was complete.

Davis had just finished in the stall and made it out wondering if the familiar man was still staring at the mirror. But that was when it hit him. He had met the man alright, in Beijing.

Beijing, China.

Davis had hoped dearly that it was over, but the truth was that as long as he or any of the others lived, it would never be over.

Davis realized that the man had left his brown briefcase sitting on the sink counter. That only meant one thing.

Davis made an attempt to run, but was engulfed in blazing flames before he had the chance.

Algeria Africa

5:33:02

5:33:03

5:33:04

5:33:05

Torrico was growing tired. Life hadn't been fair to him. Nothing exciting ever happened in his life as a patrol man for Julian Grezco. Today he was making patrol on a desert airfield in Algeria, with no idea of why. The boss would seldom fill the patrol men in on any of his plans. They were just told to patrol and watch out for anything suspicious. Life had not been fair to Torrico. The sun wasn't completely up yet, traces of the night still clouded Torrico's view. He waved a flashlight at his point of view to see where each step he made had landed.

Suddenly, a strange sound had brushed behind Torrico, catching his attention. It wasn't the sound of the wind, nor the sound of tossed pebbles nor the sound of any living creature. It was blunt, like a footstep on the desert ground.

He made a swift turn, but there was nothing save for sand and stones. Everything was quiet, for a while. But again, the same blunt noise behind him, this time followed by a dark prescience. He attempted another swift ninety degree turn, but upon doing so, felt a hard metal object slap on his forehead, knocking him unconscious. Life hadn't been fair to Torrico.

A man in a black espionage suit revealed himself from the shadows. In his earpiece came a voice.

"You there Sam?" It was William Redding.

"Loud and clear", replied the man.

"Alright", went the earpiece. "Julian is about to leave on a cargo plane not too long from now. There should be a proper snipe spot by the rocks one mile on your East. There you should get a good P.O.V to taking out Grezco."

"Aye aye", returned the one and only Samuel Fisher.

Los Angeles

5:52:12

5:52:13

5:52:14

5:52:15

Jack Bauer slept like a baby. Sleep was the one thing he had grown to love more than a lot of things in his life yet seldom had access to due to his work. His work had more than often forced him into working an entire twenty four hour shift, as well as risk his life numerous times in the process. Jack Bauer hated the adventure in his work, but knew that it was necessary for the protection of American lives. One of the major things about the work that bothered Jack Bauer, however, was that everything in his life could change by just one phone call. His wife along with friends and associates had died due to the course of just one phone call. It frustrated Jack greatly that a series of large chain reactions could occur simply due to something as small and innocent as one phone call.

Then the phone rang.

Apparently a good long sleep was too much to ask for. Jack picked it up, still drowsy.

"Yeah?"

"Jack, it's Tony."

"What do you want?" asked Jack, releasing a loud yawn.

"We want everybody down C.T.U now. There was an attack on the Pentagon about thirty minutes ago."

This was one of the phone calls that Jack Bauer despised.

Algeria, Africa

5:57:32

5:57:33

5:57:34

5:57:35

Sam had just made it quietly to the snipe spot that Redding had directed him to. The view was perfect, Sam could see everything. There was a large plane on the desert field and through the help of binoculars, Sam could clearly count six people loading boxes into it. Among the six, who were all men, one of them had features that stood out. He had black shades and a goatee, a green military jacket and green camouflage pants. Sam zoomed into the man's face and recognized it.

Julian Grezco.

Sam loaded his SC 20K rifle on hand and aimed the targeting reticule of the sniper scope right at Grezco's head. All he needed was a quiet second to pull the trigger, but someone noticed his presence.

A loud shout came from behind Sam in a language he didn't care to understand. He reacted instead by making a sharp turn to whoever was behind him and pulling the trigger of his rifle.

The man Sam had shot wielded an AK 47 assault rifle and when hit on the chest, squeezed the trigger of his rifle blindly into the air.

"Damn!" shouted Sam. Only moments after the loud gunfire, he could hear, "Spies, get the plane off land now!" from Grezco's vicinity. He aimed the rifle and fired numerous shots at his target, but Grezco made too many movements for any to hit.

Soon, Grezco and his crew of six men had boarded the plane and were no longer visible. The plane started driving on the run way collecting enough speed to fly, Sam couldn't allow it. Sam dropped his SC 20K rifle on the ground and chased after the plane with his silenced pistol in hand. He came close, but not close enough. The plane had already taken off. He fired shots at the plane, but it had no effect.

"Damn it!" Sam was furious. He stopped running to catch his breath and watch the plane fly away. The morning sun was rising and the shadows had dissolved.

"Fisher", a voice came from his earpiece. It wasn't Redding, but rather his old friend Colonel Irving Lambert.

"What?" Sam was still overcoming his frustration on the failure.

"Meet Redding and get back to the States ASAP. An urgent situation has just come up."

"But Grezco just got away", Sam said. "What about him?"

Lambert's voice was blunt and clear. "Forget Grezco for now. Something bigger has just come up."

5:59:57

5:59:58

5:59:59

6:00:00


	2. Whitmore Knew

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN 6:00 AM AND 7:00 AM

EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

CTU Los Angeles

6:00:01

6:00:02

6:00:03

6:00:04

Jack Bauer arrived at CTU stunned by the number of men in suits that had showed up for the briefing. He tried to ignore their presence as he walked into his glass encased office, but the rising number of noise and frustration invading the workspace gave him little patience. He walked up the flight of stairs leading to his office, but stopped there. His head turned to the people below him as he shouted, "Keep your voices down in here!" A second after, all activity stopped and nearly everybody had their eyes on Jack. Jack ignored the attention and walked straight into his office.

Seconds later, a woman walked into Jack's office one hand holding a document and the other a disposable cup filled to the rim with coffee.

"You okay?" she asked, concerned.

Jack got straight to the point. "What do you have Michelle?"

"Well," she went on. "We are about to have a briefing on what exactly occurred and we are just waiting for some members of NSA and FBI to run in."

Jack couldn't wait for the briefing. The morning had given him a headache and the incident that occurred only seconds ago proved that he was growing grumpier by the second. "Tell me what you know."

Algeria Africa

6:25:12

6:25:13

6:25:14

6:25:15

William Redding had rendezvoused with Sam Fisher on the government bird driven by two highly skilled pilots and were now on African air making way back home to the States.

Sam had not yet changed into his casual clothing; instead he immediately picked up a telephone attached to wirings on the airplane eager to make a phone call to Col. Lambert. It rang three times until somebody had picked it up.

"Lambert?"

"What is it Fisher?" asked the voice in the phone.

"You mind telling me what's up?" asked a curious Sam.

"There was an attack on the Pentagon an hour ago. There were several casualties: all of them government officials. Press hasn't said anything yet, and the boys down at Pentagon want all branches investigating in on this, including Third Echelon."

Sam grew confused. "But Lambert, this isn't normally our thing." It was true. The role of Third Echelon was never to investigate attacks already made on American soil, but rather to investigate any potential criminals that could be classified as a possible threat to the home land and eliminate them.

Lambert understood the role of Third Echelon, which was why the last detail would change everything. "Security claims that Alex Whitmore was there during the time of the attack."

Sam lost his breath. "Whitmore!" And that last detail changed everything.

"I sent Grimsdottir down to CTU in Los Angeles, she should be there by now. She'll try to learn whatever she can on the attack, and then she will fill them in on everything we have on Whitmore," said Lambert.

"But..." Lambert went silent for seconds.

"But what?" Sam was anxious to know.

"CTU can't know anything about Third Echelon," concluded Lambert. "The new branch has had numerous reports of moles in the past few years that they have been active. I'm sorry to say that we can't completely trust CTU, but the secrecy of Third Echelon is of higher importance and we don't want someone passing information on us. Grimsdottir has been informed and will try to keep the organization confidential."

"I understand." Sam Fisher was aware of the newly formed Counter Terrorist Unit office down in Los Angeles, and of the numerous moles that had presided in it. There were good people no doubt and the new office deserved lots of credit for the work they had done as a counter terrorist unit, but CTU was often unorganized in keeping a keen eye on their employees, and lots of information had been leaked from the office over the past years. Spies from all around the world have died due to internal leaks, and that was something Sam wasn't willing to be a victim of. Neither Sam nor Third Echelon could risk any confidential information leaving the country, even if it meant death.

CTU Los Angeles 

6:32:43

6:32:44

6:32:45

6:32:46

Michelle Dessler had entered the conference room passing out documents to all unfamiliar.

"All we have information on" Michelle told. "Is the bomb itself and a suspect who might have been involved. Anna Grimsdottir from NSA has that information from surveillance", she said while pointing her hand at a 5'8'' tall woman with black hair and blue eyes. The woman responded with a short wave.

"Judging from the explosion and damage, the bomb is completely standard C4 explosive in a briefcase. We still don't have any ideas as to how the bomb got in; we have people investigating that at the Pentagon. Security feed shows a man in a blue suit come in with a briefcase go in the men's room. But when he left, it wasn't with him."

"Any ideas on who this is?" a voice came from somewhere around the room.

She replied, "Anna has all that information", and directed her eyes to the NSA employee. Anna got up and cleared her throat.

"The man is known to us only as Alex Whitmore. We do not have any clear identification of the man or where exactly he was born. NSA has limited files on him. We know him through several gun running operations internationally around the globe. He has funded numerous terrorist activities around China to a revolutionary group known as the "Blue Carve". We doubt that the group has anything to do with the attack as Whitmore's relation with them was only mutual. We have sent several field operatives down to find him over the past few years. A tactical force was sent to take him down, but it failed. Whitmore has had secret ties and support from numerous terrorists. Most of the team turned out dead and he vanished, no activity from him since. We are so far unsure of where or how to locate him and are currently investigating him with the best of our abilities." It was true for the most part. The true identity of Alex Whitmore was unknown to government officials. But a tactical team was never sent to retrieve him, rather a Splinter Cell was sent to catch him dead due to secret information he had on the United State's security systems. But the operation failed because Whitmore was completely aware. There were moles alright. And Anna knew very well where to find their target. Only minutes ago Whitmore had purchased tickets to Los Angeles.

CTU Los Angeles

6:45:12

6:45:13

6:45:14

6:45:15

The conference was over. Dan White had recognized the tall woman talking about Whitmore. She was lying, Dan knew. He left the conference room in a hurry, pressured to make an urgent phone call to his associate.

"It has been confirmed", said Dan. "Make all the necessary arrangements to make sure that they are stopped." A low voice in the phone asked to make sure.

"Yes," replied Dan. "Third Echelon is on the case."

Ciudad Victoria, Mexico

6:57:32

6:57:33

6:57:34

6:57:35

The pilot told Sam and William that they were in Mexican air. Sam nodded and sat perfectly still, head facing the ground. He was still wearing his black stealth suit without realizing it. His head had gone adrift in space, thinking. Is this finally it? Sam hated losing, and with Whitmore he had lost too many times. Sam acknowledged the threat Whitmore served to all United States secret agents and knew that it was his given responsibility to eliminate him. He has been chasing him for too long, this time it had to be it. It had to end.

Suddenly, a series of red flashes invaded the plane. One of the pilots cursed aloud.

"An incoming missile!" he yelled.

One thought went into his head after he heard the pilot. Whitmore knows. He urged everybody on board to brace for impact as he did so himself. Something large hit behind the plane, causing it to veer out of control. The plane then began sinking with incredible amounts of speed onto the ground. He was hit, he might not make it. This could be the end of Third Echelon, but Sam could think of only one thing. Whitmore knew.

6:59:57

6:59:58

6:59:59

7:00:00


	3. What Creaps Underneath

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN 7:00 AM AND 8:00 AM

EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

CTU San Francisco

7:15:01

7:15:02

7:15:03

7:15:04

Anna had just finished briefing the CTU on what they needed know about Alex Whitmore, and nothing more. Her next assignment was to report to Lambert immediately. She made her way down a sidewalk curve where she had parked her car, a Toyota Corolla.

Footsteps came behind and interrupted her.

"Hey!" Anna turned her head and saw a blond man in a dark blue long sleeve shirt speed walking to her direction. He came closer to her, stretched out his arm and said, "Hi, my name is Jack Bauer."

Jack knew she wasn't telling them anything, he saw it in her eyes. It was one of the things you learned as Jack Bauer; to read eyes. She had unknowingly made herself his suspect, his only lead to finding out more.

"Yes I saw you in the conference room. What do you want?"

"I want you to know that we will try our best at getting this guy. Now I was hoping I could get a direct number of your office in case we find any information on him," Jack bluffed. His real intentions were simple; to make closer eye contact for verification, and to get a good glimpse of her car plates without looking suspicious.

Anna didn't fall for it. She knew something was up, but reluctantly played along. "Here", she handed him her business card with her name on the center in bold. "Call if you find anything." She turned her head and entered her car thinking no more of the suspecting Jack Bauer. And as she drove off, she noticed on the side mirror that the man in blue sleeve was watching her take off. She paid no more attention to him and focused on the road.

But just like that, a red van had appeared out of thin air and slammed Anna's Toyota on its side. Loud yelling had followed and three peculiar men in ski masks and AK 47's leapt out of the van. The small openings on the eyes and mouth made a clear indication that they were all black.

'What the hell?' Jack saw everything, but couldn't understand it. He acted without thinking; there was no time to think. On the side of his waist was a holster encasing a Browning Hi Power sidearm.

He grabbed it tightly onto his right arm and ran towards the red van.

The men in ski masks took clear note of Jack's presence and wasted no time firing bullets at him.

It occurred to Jack that the masked men were most likely plain street thugs; their inefficiency with an assault rifle served as evidence. He ducked under the cover of cars stuck on the road, rising only to return fire. He repeated this process until he had nailed two of the men on the chest, and there was only one left. Scared, he dropped his weapon and fled the scene as fast as he could.

Jack took the moment to check on the crumbled Toyota. Anna was unconscious on the driver's seat, there didn't seem to be any blood on her. Jack raised two fingers on her neck and sensed a pulse. She was okay. He turned and ran without anymore delay towards the last remaining man.

Mexico

7:37:47

7:37:48

7:37:49

7:37:50

Parts of the plane were still in flames. William had suffered a huge knock on the head which had rendered him unconscious for the past thirty minutes. When he regained himself, his vision became blurry. He looked around himself, confused at his current location.

"Sam?" he asked blindly, squinting his eyes. The sun was shining strong this morning, causing a lot of sweat and drowsiness to come to William Redding.

"Sam!" he received no reply. His vision was slowly coming towards him.

"Quiet", came a voice. He looked to the direction of the sound and saw a man in a dark espionage suit with his back turned. The man was looking across the barren rocks and trees.

"The pilots are dead," said Sam still eying the rocky terrain.

"There are enemies coming towards us. I count at least a dozen men in military outfits. Their suits say Mexican military but I'm not so sure."

William was confused. "What do we do?" Usually it was Sam asking William that, as he was one of the brains in Third Echelon. Normally he would give orders and tips to Sam through his earpiece, but this was when he had the necessary intel. Now he had nothing.

"Here", Sam un-holstered his sidearm pistol and passed it to William.

"You're on your own. Go east from here, they won't see you. I'll go find out more about these guys. You try to find a way back into NSA," concluded Sam.

"But Sam, you have no intel support. We have nothing. We don't even know what we should do next." William let out a sigh. This whole thing was ridiculous; whatever Sam was suggesting was past amateur and leaned towards insanity. But the soldiers were here for a reason, and right now they were the only lead to the truth. "Are you sure?"

Sam nodded. "Affirmative."

CTU Los Angeles

7:43:22

7:43:23

7:43:24

7:43:25

The masked man was losing energy; even Jack himself was breaking a sweat. The warm climate made his skin itch, distracting him for moments, but he had to ignore it and go on. The man took a sharp left turn and passed through a public park. Jack was getting tired of the long chase and the thought of clipping him on the foot became more and more tempting. But logic overruled the idea; he knew that it would only waste more time. He would have to send him to a hospital before he could get him to talk, assuming he wanted his prisoner to live after the interrogation.

There would be no point now. The man was a great runner, but Jack was now only a few inches from him. Jack dropped his sidearm to lose the extra weight and when he came close enough, he pounced at the masked man with all his strength, causing them both to crash onto the hard ground.

"Don't kill me!" the man was now shedding tears. Jack removed his mask and retrieved a glimpse of his sobbing face. "Please man, I'll tell you everything." Jack got up and dragged the man on his arm back to CTU.

Mexico

7:57:43

7:57:44

7:57:45

7:57:46

The soldiers had found nothing but the corpses of two pilots. There was no trace of anybody else left on board. After a long search, they quit and made off onto their military truck, unaware of what had crept underneath.

7:59:57

7:59:58

7:59:59

8:00:00


	4. Lambert & the Director

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN 8:00 AM AND 9:00 AM

CTU Los Angeles

8:00:02

8:00:03

8:00:04

8:00:05

Jack entered the CTU workspace dragging with him a black suspect on his right arm. All eyes in the office were directed at him, but he didn't care, he had grown used to all the attention.

"Tony," he called as a Latino male in his twenties came into view.

"We heard about everything Jack," was his reply. "Anna from NSA is just in the conference room with some of our guys. She's awake and a bit shaken, and she's refusing any medical attention but she's okay."

That was Jack's first good news this whole morning. "Thank you. I'm bringing this guy in for interrogation, he was the only shooter left alive. Get shots of those KIA and see if Anna knows any of them."

Tony responded with a quick nod and left Jack's sight.

He had just made it in the interrogation room with the suspect intact. Jack physically directed him onto a chair inside the silent dim lit room.

"Now, tell me everything."

"Nobody was supposed to get killed man." Jack's ability to study eyes had served as a tremendous asset to his career. 'Liar', he mused.

'There is no time for this', and with that thought, Jack decided to go a little rough. He thought about his Browning Hi Power on the holster of his side. He grabbed the suspect on the collar and stuck the barrel of his gun on his temple. After this he knew that he would receive another complaint about excessive force, but that would have been nothing new. The suspect had finally complied, and that was all that mattered.

"This was all Tyler's idea", the man exclaimed.

"Who is Tyler?"

"Tyler set this whole gig up with those white guys"

This was only raising more questions. "What white guys?"

"I don't know. Tyler knows more about this than any of us."

Suddenly, a thought came to Jack. He left the interrogation room only to return in a matter of seconds holding up a photograph of Alex Whitmore.

"Is this him?"

The man nodded his head uncontrollably. "That's him."

It was confirmed. "Why did you try to kill an NSA agent?" The suspect didn't say anymore than that Tyler had set the whole thing up. The suspect had no idea who she was, only where she would be and what she looked like.

"Write down his address." He did. Jack stormed out of the room with a piece of paper in his hand and met a fellow field worker on his way. "Terrance." The man shifted his attention to Jack almost immediately. "Make sure he gets put in a cell," he continued pointing a finger at the entrance door of the interrogation room. Terrance nodded his head and went on.

Jack arrived at Tony's workspace. He handed a piece of paper and told Tony to 'find out who lives in this address and issue out a warrant, then call up some teams for a raid.'

Tony nodded in confirmation.

Mexico

8:29:41

8:29:42

8:29:43

8:29:44

Juarez was still confused about their previous assignment. He had thought about it long and hard on the back of the shaky military truck as it was voyaging to the base, running over a series of large stones on the way.

"Hey," Juarez called two other soldiers on board chattering about something else.

"Why would Colonel Cristobal order us to wipe out a crashed plane," he asked his fellow comrades in his native Spanish.

"Who knows?" was the unconcerned reply.

'It is strange. I don't understand,' Juarez wondered silently.

The truck stopped as it had reached the base. "We are here," proclaimed one of the soldiers. "Juarez maybe you can ask him yourself."

Juarez was curious to know, but stopped himself there. The Colonel was not a man famous for answering questions but rather hiding them. There have been numerous abnormal orders issued by Colonel Cristobal in the past, most of which the soldiers doubted were approved by or even introduced to superiors. After completing one of Cristobal's questionable assignments, a fellow soldier had asked too many questions and threatened to report to the activities to higher officers. Coincidentally, he disappeared just before being able to do so; that wasn't the kind of thing that Juarez wanted for himself.

"No thank you." Juarez had lost his concern over the matter and unloaded himself from the truck just like all the other soldiers had and he followed behind them back into the quarters.

Sam was confused yet certain. He had not long ago climbed onto the lower chest of the truck and it had led him on a Mexican military base. Sam was confused of who exactly ordered an attack on the plane, but was confirmed that it was Mexican military on the exterior. He didn't have a whole lot to go on, but one of the soldiers had mentioned something about a Colonel Cristobal and that he was presiding somewhere in this base. 'Whitmore had some powerful friends', Sam thought. It was broad daylight; the sun was eating on his skin. Ghostly stealth would be of no use now. His only option would be an outfit to get around defense. Before long, he heard footsteps approach into his vicinity. 'Perfect.'

Los Angeles

8:35:19

8:35:20

8:35:21

8:35:22

The teams had just arrived into a one story house in the local suburbs. They had immediately got into gear and came up with a game plan. Jack wore a Kevlar vest, anxious to lead the teams in. There were expected hostiles inside the building, but mostly street punks surrounding themselves with the wrong crowd. In any normal case Jack would let the teams go in without him, but he needed to get Tyler out alive. Anything less would be a failed mission. Jack trusted the teams with his life, but not with Tyler's.

There were two viable points of entry; the front door and the backdoor through the backyard. The plan was simple; Jack and two guys behind break in the front, and the second team would raid in from the back.

Jack was handed a Motorola hand radio with which to communicate with the second team. The doors were wooden; a simple ram on both entrances would do the trick.

"Do you read me Team 2?" Jack whispered into his Motorola tightly gripped in his left hand. On his right was his Browning Hi Power. Jack and the teams were all armed with sidearms for one reason only; they wanted to be sure of every shot made if any were necessary. Nobody on the team could risk even a shred on Tyler if they wanted answers without having to call in a medic.

"We read you Team 1", replied the from the hand radio. Jack acknowledged. He took three deep long breathes. "Go".

Team 2 had come in first. He could hear the back door break down. Meanwhile an officer in Team 1 barged the door and stepped back. Jack had run in almost immediately. There were three men sitting on a couch, eyes wide. They all had guns on their hands and responded by firing at the teams.

As if a reflex, Jack had ducked down before anything could hit him. However, the man just behind him was caught by surprise; the consequence was a bullet on the neck.

Before any of the remaining team members had time to act, Jack already blew the three men on their kneecaps with a perfect aim. Not a second later, each three men fell on the ground bleeding and screaming off the top of their lungs. They would have to call the medics.

Nothing ever went right for Jack Bauer.

Mexico

8:45:16

8:45:17

8:45:18

8:45:19

Colonel Cristobal called Juarez and Pepe into his office without delay. On any normal government assignment he would have asked for a report, but this was not the case. It was one of his "special assignments" that nobody outside the base would know about. And if they did, he would know about it. Cristobal made the most of his given rank, something he could obtain only through years and years of sucking up to his superiors and brushing away all those who stood on his path to a promotion. Cristobal was crooked and everybody knew it. Even some of the other Colonels and high ranks were aware of his "special assignments" which included a lot of illegal activity, including acts of treason, but as long as there was nothing to charge him on they would be nothing more than false rumors.

"You tell me you didn't find anything?" he cursed at his two soldiers. They responded only by standing still.

"Get out!" he ordered. "I will see to it that you get your just punishment." They left the room silently just as the Colonel ordered and shut the door behind.

Colonel Cristobal picked up his work phone and dialed a series of numbers. Had he not been occupied with what his contact would say to him, he would have noticed a cool breeze flowing in from a window behind him. This was only strange because he always closed the windows in his office.

Suddenly, a cold metal tube pressed on the back of his head. His eyes widened and he lost grip of the phone. Fearing it to be a gun, he made no attempt at moving.

"You ordered the attack didn't you?" came a voice from behind him speaking in his native Spanish. Judging from the accent of the deep voice, this man had to be American.

"Who are you?" the Colonel turned his head to look at whoever was behind him, but was prevented by a sharp knock on the back on his neck.

"Aaah!"

"I'll do the asking around here," demanded the voice. "Who are you working for?" The Colonel replied by saying something about the Mexican military. Wrong answer. He received another knock harder than the last time. The pain was excruciating.

The Colonel made loud coughs and struggled to breathe. "My contact...is Mr. Dan White."

Sam heard loud and clear. 'No. It can't be.'

NSA Headquarters, Baltimore

8:52:10

8:52:11

8:52:12

8:52:13

Colonel Irving Lambert took a deep sip into his coffee as he waited patiently. He expected a call from Anna not long from now, it never came. He had lost radio contact with Sam and Redding a few hours ago. 'Frequency problems', was his conjecture. It wouldn't have been the first time. But something about it all troubled Lambert a great deal. It had just occurred to him at the moment that he currently had no contact with the entire Third Echelon crew for reasons unknown. 'What the hell is going on?'

His office door had just opened. He expected someone from the team. Lambert turned his head to see who it was.

The man was in his early twenties, had a tanned skin and a well toned body.

"Who are you?" asked Lambert. "How did you get in here?" He had never seen the man anywhere on campus before, but that was probably the point. He saw a silenced pistol pointed at his face; that was all he needed to know.

Three gunshots whispered into Lambert's chest, and he fell on the floor almost immediately. The tiles stained with coffee and blood.

8:57:39

8:57:40

8:57:41

8:57:42

The job was done. The man looked over at his target. There was blood leaking out of his jacket. He packed his weapon back into its holster and walked out of the room closing the door behind him. He walked two stairwells down into the entrance, but was interrupted by a security guard looking over at his direction. The guard said that he had never seen the man before and asked for his employee card. Security was getting tight for some reason. The man fished out his card from the back of his wallet and handed it to the guard. The guard was satisfied and gave it back. The man retrieved it and walked away before he caught more suspicion. The card said that the man had been working in the office for two years; the truth was that he never did. The identity was a perfect forge, courtesy of Dan White, Director of NSA.

8:59:57

8:59:58

8:59:59

9:00:00


	5. Another Death

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN 9 AM AND 10 AM EASTERN STANDARD TIME

NYC, Roscoe Tower

9:15:03

9:15:04

9:15:05

9:15:06

Michael J. Roscoe was a careful man. The car that drove him to work at quarter past nine each morning was a custom made Mercedes with reinforced steel plates and bulletproof windows. His driver, a retired FBI agent, carried a Beretta subcompact automatic pistol and knew how to use it. There were just 5 steps from the point where the car stopped to the entrance of Roscoe Tower on New York's 5th Avenue, but closed-circuit television cameras followed him every inch of the way. Once the automatic doors had slid shut behind him, a uniformed guard --also armed with a Beretta ­­­­--watched as he crossed the foyer with long strides and entered his own private elevator. The elevator had white marble walls, a blue carpet, a silver handrail, but no buttons. Instead, there was a glass panel on the wall. Roscoe pressed his hand against the glass. A sensor read his fingerprints, verified them with the ones on file, and activated the elevator. The doors slid shut and the elevator rose to the 60th floor with out stopping. Nobody else ever used it. Nor did it stop at any of the other floors of the building. At the same time that the elevator was rising, the receptionist down in the lobby was on the phone, letting the staff know that Mr. Roscoe was on his way. Everyone who worked in and around Roscoe's office was handpicked by him, and it was impossible to see him without an appointment. When you're rich, you need to be careful. There are madmen, kidnappers, terrorists---the desperate and the dispossessed. Micheal J. Roscoe was the CEO of Roscoe Electronics and the 9th or 10th richest man alive---he had to be very careful indeed. Ever since his face had appeared on the cover of _Time_ magazine (which dubbed him as the 'Electronics King'), he knew that he had become a visible target. When in public he walked quickly, with his head bent. His glasses had been especially chosen to hide as much of his round, handsome face as possible. His suits were expensive, but anonymous. There were dozens of different security systems in his life, and although they had once annoyed him, he had allowed them to become routine. But ask any spy or security agent and they'll say that routine is one of the things that can get you killed the most. It tells the enemy where you're going and when you're going to be there. Routine was going to kill Micheal J. Roscoe, and this was the day that death had chosen to come calling. Of course, Roscoe had no idea of his fate as he stepped out of the elevator that opened directly into his private office, a huge room occupying the corner of the building with floor to ceiling windows giving views in two directions: 5th Avenue to the east, Central Park just a few blocks south. The two remaining walls contained a door, a low book shelf, and a single oil painting---a vase of flowers by Vincent van Gogh. The black glass surface of his desk was equally uncluttered: a computer, a leather notebook, a telephone, and a framed photograph of a 14-year-old boy. As he took off his jacket and sat down, Roscoe found himself looking at the picture of the boy. Blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles. Paul Roscoe looked remarkably like his father had 30 years ago. Micheal Roscoe was now 52 and beginning to show his age despite his year-round tan. His son was almost as tall as he was. The picture had been taken the summer before, on Long Island. They had spent the day sailing. Then they'd had a barbecue on the beach. It had been on of the few happy days that they had spent together. The door opened and his secretary came in. Helen Wadsworth was English. She had left her home and, indeed, her husband to come and work in New York, and still loved every minute of it. She had been working in this office for 11 years, and in all that time she had never forgotten a detail or made a mistake.

"Good morning, Mr. Roscoe," she said.

"Good morning, Helen,"

She put a folder on his desk. "The latest figures from Singapore. Costings on the R-15 Organizer. You have brunch with Senator Andrews at 10. I've already booked the reservations."

"Did you remember to call NSA?" Roscoe asked.

Helen Wadsworth blinked. She never forgot anything, so why had he asked? "I spoke to Col. Lambert's office yesterday evening," she said. "He was not available, but I've arranged a person-to-person call with you this afternoon. We can have it patched through to your car."

"Thank you, Helen."

"Shall I have your coffee sent in to you?"

"No, thank you, Helen. I won't have coffee today."

Helen Wadsworth left the room, seriously alarmed. No coffee? What's next? Mr. Roscoe had begun his day with a double espresso for as long as she had known him. Could it be that he was ill? He certainly hadn't been himself recently---ever since his son has been caught with and ounce of pot. And this phone call to Col. Lambert at NSA! Nobody had ever told her who she was, but she had seen his name once in a file. He had something to do with military intelligence. A 3rd Echelon something or other. What was Mr. Roscoe doing, talking to a spy? Helen Wadsworth returned to her office and soothed her nerves, not with coffee---she couldn't stand the stuff---but with a large, refreshing cup of English Breakfast tea. Something very strange was going on, and she didn't like it. She didn't like it at all.

9:23:06

9:23:07

9:23:08

9:23:09

60 floors below, a man walked into the lobby area wearing gray overalls with an ID badge attached to his chest. The badge identified him as Sam Green, maintenance engineer with X-Press Elevators Inc. He was carrying a briefcase in one hand and a large silver toolbox in the other .He set them both down in front of the reception desk. Sam Green was not his real name. His hair---black and a little greasy---was fake, as were his glasses, mustache, and uneven teeth. He looked 50 years old, but he was actually closer to 30. Nobody knew the man's real name, but in the business that he was in, a name was the last thing he could afford. He was known merely as "The Gentleman," and he was one of the highest-paid and most successful contract killers in the world. He had been given his nickname because he always sent flowers to the families of his victims. The lobby guard glanced at him.

"I'm here for the elevator," he said. He spoke with a Bronx accent even though he had never spent more than a week there in his life.

"What about it?" the guard asked. "You people were here last week."

"Yeah. Sure. We found a defective cable on elevator 12. It had to be replaced, but we didn't have the parts. So they sent me back." The Gentleman fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "You want to call the head office? I've got my orders here."

If the guard had called X-Press Elevators Inc., he would have discovered that they did indeed employ a Sam Green---although he hadn't shown up for work in 2 days. This was because the real Sam Green was at the bottom of the Hudson River with a knife in his back and a 20 pound block of concrete attached to his foot. But the guard didn't make the call. The Gentleman had guessed that he wouldn't bother. After all, elevators were always breaking down. There were engineers in and out all the time. What difference would one more make?

The guard jerked a thumb. "Go ahead," he said.

The Gentleman put away the letter, picked up his cases, and went over to the elevators. There were a dozen elevators in the skyscraper, plus a 13th for Michael J. Roscoe. Elevator number 12 was at the end. As he went in, a delivery boy with a parcel tried to follow. "Sorry," The Gentleman said. "Closed for maintenance." the doors slid shut. He was on his own. He pressed the button for the 61st floor. He had been given this job only a week before. He'd had to work fast, killing the real maintenance engineer, taking his identity, learning the layout of Roscoe Tower, and getting his hands on a sophisticated piece of equipment he had know he would need. His employers wanted the multimillionaire eliminated as quickly as possible. More importantly, it had to look like an accident. For this, The Gentleman had demanded---and been paid---$100,000. The money was to be paid into a bank account in Switzerland; half now, half on completion. The elevator door opened again. The 61st floor was primarily used for maintenance. This was where the water tanks were housed, as well as the computers that controlled the heat, air-conditioning, security cameras, and elevators throughout the building. The Gentleman turned off the elevator, using the manual override key that had once belonged to Sam Green, then wen went over to the computers. He knew exactly where they were. In fact, he could have found them wearing a blindfold. He opened his briefcase. There were 2 sections to the case. The lower part was a laptop computer. The upper lid was fitted with a number of drills and other tools, each of them strapped into place. It took 5 minutes to cut his way into the Roscoe Tower mainframe and connect his own laptop to the circuitry inside. Hacking his way past the Roscoe security systems took even less. He tapped a command into his keyboard, and then Michael J. Roscoe's private elevator on the floor below did something it had never done before. It rose one more floor---to level 61. the door however, remain closed. The Gentleman did not need to get in. Instead, he picked up his briefcase and toolbox and carried them into the same elevator he had taken from the lobby. He turned the override key and pressed the button for the 59th floor. Once again, he deactivated the elevator. Then he reached up and pushed. The top of the elevator was a trapdoor that opened outward. He pushed the briefcase and toolbox ahead of him, then pulled himself up and climbed onto the roof of the elevator. He was now standing inside the main shaft of Roscoe Tower. He was surrounded on four sides by girders and pipes blackened with oil and dirt. Thick steel cables hung down, some of them humming as they carried their loads. Looking down, he could see a seemingly endless square tunnel illuminated only by the chinks of light from the doors that slid open and shut again as the other elevators arrived at various floors. Somehow the breeze had made its way in from the street, spinning dust that had stung his eyes. Next to him was a set of elevators that, had he opened them, would have led him straight into Roscoe's office. Above these, over his head and a few yards to the right, was the underbelly of Roscoe's private elevator. The toolbox was next to him, on the roof of the elevator. Carefully, he opened it. The sides of the case were lined with a thick sponge. Inside, in the specially molded space, was what looked like a complicated film projector, silver and concave with a thick glass lens. He took it out, then glanced at his watch. 9:35 AM. It would take him about 8 minutes to connect the device to the bottom of Roscoe's elevator and about 2 to make sure that it was working. 10 minutes total. He was a bit pushed for time, but he could make it. Smiling to himself, The Gentleman took out a power screwdriver and began to work.

9:44:58

9:44:59

9:44:00

9:45:01

Helen Wadsworth called her employer's phone. "Your car is here, Mr. Roscoe."

"Thank you, Helen."

Roscoe hadn't done much since he arrived. He had been aware that only half of his mind was on his work. Once again, he glanced at the photograph on his desk. Paul. How could things have gone so wrong between a father and a son? And what could have happened to make him turn to drugs? He stood up, put his jacket on, and walked across his office, on his way to bunch with Senator Andrews. He often had brunch with politicians. They wanted either his money, his ideas---or him. Anyone as rich as Roscoe made for a powerful friend, and politicians need all the friends they can get. He pressed the elevator button, and the doors slid open. He took one step forward. The last thing that Michael J. Roscoe saw in his life was the inside of his elevator with its white marble walls, blue carpet, and silver handrail. His right foot, wearing black leather shoe that was handmade for him by a small shop in Rome, traveled down to the carpet and kept going---right through it. The rest of his body followed, tilting into the elevator and then through it. And then he was falling 60 floors to his death. He was so surprised by what had happened, so totally unable to understand what _had _happened, that he didn't even cry out. He simply fell into the blackness of the elevator shaft, bounced off the walls, then crashed into the solid concrete of the basement, 500 yards below. The elevator remained where it was. It looked solid but, in fact, it wasn't there at all. What Roscoe had stepped into was a hologram, an image being projected into the empty space of the elevator shaft where the real elevator should have been. The Gentleman had programmed the door to open when Roscoe pressed the call button, and had quietly watched him as he stepped into oblivion. If the multimillionaire had managed to look up for a moment, he would have seen the silver hologram projector, beaming the image, a few yards above him. But a man getting into an elevator on his way to brunch does not look up. The Gentleman had known this. And he was never wrong.

9:55:06

9:55:07

9:55:08

9:55:09

A man who looked nothing like a maintenance engineer walked into JFK International Airport. He was about to board a flight for Switzerland. But first, he visited a flower shop and ordered a dozen black tulips to be sent to a certain address. The man paid with cash. He didn't leave a name.

9:59:57

9:59:58

9:59:59

10:00:00


	6. Operation Fisher Freedom

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETEEN 10 AM AND 11 AM, EASTERN STANDARD TIME

10:02:06

10:02:07

10:02:08

10:02:09

The impostor of Dan White sitting down in his office. He was rummaging around in the cabinets of the desk, looking for a folder. He kept telling himself that if he wanted to pass as the Director of the Nation Security Agency, he needed to find where the real one kept all of his things. He should have kept him alive, so he could torture him until he told him how to act like Dan White would. But that was impossible now, as the real one was buried deep underground, in millions of tiny pieces. He finally found it. As he was putting the papers in front of him in the folder, the phone rang.

"You have a call on line 4, Mr. White," his secretary said.

"Thank you," the fake Dan White replied. He was perplexed. Line 4 was only used for emergencies, and for when you wanted your call to be secure from outside lines. No way in hell could the hit be done already. But if the call wasn't about the hit, what could it be about. He picked up the phone.

"Dan White speaking."

"It is finished," said the dark voice from the other end. The impostor wanted to respond, but all he heard now was a dial tone.

10:05:46

10:05:47

10:05:48

10:05:49

For what seemed like the 1,000,000th time, Samuel Fisher was stationed in Iraq. He was sent there by Col. Lambert...Col. Lambert. It pained him to remember. For 20 years, Colonel Irving Lambert was like a father to Sam, bringing him into the NSA when he was disgruntled with the CIA. But what pained Sam to remember the most was thinking about the Colonels family. Irene Lambert was a NSA cryptologist, and she was the nicest person that you could ever meet. She was never afraid to speak her mind, even if it meant disagreeing with her husband. But one thing they sure as hell agreed on was that they needed to get Alex Whitmore locked up for good. He was on the road to becoming the most wanted man alive. And it was the Lamberts' dream to see him removed from the list. Sadly, the Colonel would never see his dream become a reality. That was why Sam felt that it was his duty; no, his obligation to complete his mission.

10:16:26

10:16:27

10:16:28

10:16:29

Security Cop Robert Perkins disliked his patrol route with a passion. When he applied for the job, he thought that he would be doing something exciting: drug busts, high-speed chases, you know, cop stuff. But instead, he was in charge of the area surrounding the National Theater in Washington D.C. But, to be truthful, if anyone decided to to anything to the theater, they would probably easily get past him. He was always daydreaming, as the monotonous _thud_ of his steps made him tired. But today, for the first time, he was awakened from his state of near slumber by the sound of car horns. When his senses came back to him, his eyes tracked down the location of the sound, and he was aghast at what he saw: a large parade float. It was made to look like the inside of a theater. Three "actors" were performing a play on it, seemingly for the benefit of the pedestrians that were starting to crowd around the float. They were dressed in medieval attire and they were speaking lines that no one could hear over the sound of the _beep _ of the car horns of the autos that wanted to get through.

What's the point of having a play if no one can hear it?' He wondered. He walked toward the float, preparing to give someone hell. He went to the driver's side door of the small vehicle that was propelling the float. The driver sat in the seat, bobbing his upper body in a strange fashion. He appeared to be Middle Eastern. Perkins stepped up to the window on the door and rapped on it.

"Listen! You got to move!"

The driver didn't look at him. He continued to bob, muttering something to himself.

"Sir! I'm speaking to you!"

As he rapped on the window once more, Perkins understood what the driver was doing. He was praying.

10:28:46

10:28:47

10:28:48

10:28:49

Sam was in a Toyota Landcruiser heading to the city of Arbil. He saw the lights that indicated that a road block was ahead. He slowed the vehicle down to a stop. The four men that came out of the checkpoint booth were dressed in Iraqi Police Uniforms, but he got a felling that something was not right. Two men carried rifles, and another had a handgun. As soon as Sam lowered the window, the handgun got pointed at his face.

"We're going for a ride, friend."

10:37:43

10:37:44

10:37:45

10:37:46

As soon as the realization hit him, Perkins' heart nearly stopped. He gasped and stepped back from the float, but it was too late, the explosives were so powerful that they obliterated the float and its troupe of suicide "actors", 8 cars on Pennsylvania Ave., and caused a section of the White House to collapse, killing 14. th President, who must have been the target, was not at the White House at the time of the blast; he was at home with the cold. In all, 62 innocents were killed and nearly 150 were injured. Security Cop Robert Perkins never had to travel on his patrol route again.

10:47:29

10:47:30

10:47:31

10:47:32

The 4 men went into Sam's Landcruiser. Then the only man without a weapon decided to talk.

"Drive that way," he said, and he pointed forward. There was nothing that Sam could've done but obey.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"You'll see," the man said. "Just shut up and drive." And he did. He drove for more than an hour, until the man behind him suddenly talked again.

"Get out here, and leave the car running." Again, Sam had no choice but to comply.

"Put your hands on your head, and turn around." Sam did as he was told, but he was really starting to get pissed off. The unarmed man, obviously the leader, began to frisk Sam.

'I'm lucky that I left my five-seveN in the car,' Sam thought silently. When the leader was finished feeling up on him, Sam finally got a chance to get a good look at the man with the pistol. As he grinned, Sam acknowledged that he was the ugliest son of a bitch that he had ever seen.

"I think that we should take your car now," the leader said. Then the man with the pistol decided to talk again.

"Who are you?" For once, Sam thought that it would be best to reply with the truth.

"I'm an upper-class NSA agent working for 3rd Echelon, so I suggest you let me go."

"Oh, you _suggest_ that we let you go. Well I suggest that you get on your knees and pray, because you're about to kiss the earth goodbye!"

'Come on,' Sam thought. 'Just one more step.'

"You want me to get on my knees?"

"That's what I said!"

Sam pointed to the ground and said, "Right here?" That did the trick. The leader took another step and began to say 'Yes right th---." Before he got a chance to finish, Sam kicked him, hard, in the crotch. Then he grabbed the man and used him as a human shield to protect him from the bullet that The Ugly One had fired. Sam then threw the dead body right back at Ugly, and they both crashed to the ground. Before the riflemen had a chance to attack, Sam grabbed their heads and smashed them together, jumped in the air, and did a split kick. One of the men got knocked unconscious instantly. The other stood right back up. Sam faked a punch to his groin, and he actually kicked him in the face. His rifle went flying. Sam caught it, and got the man in his sight, and fired a round at point-blank range. He fell down in his tracks. Then Sam blindly shoved the rifle backwards, hitting Mr. Ugly, who was trying to get revenge. Then Sam took him down using a leg sweep, and then he kicked him in the face as soon as he landed. Sam got up, brushed some dirt off of his shoulders, got back in the car, and drove away.

10:59:57

10:59:58

10:59:59

11:00:00


	7. The List

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN 11 AM AND 12 PM

11:06:46

11:06:47

11:06:48

11:06:49

Jack Bauer was sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, awaiting the release of the ones that were in the house, so that he could personally interrogate them. As he was sitting in a plush sofa, he saw a man with a large chest exit through the doors of the elevator.

"Steroids," Jack mumbled to himself. But steroids weren't the reason 4 men in different sections of the hospital had large chests that day. People were going to die that die, no matter how many.

11:23:56

11:23:57

11:23:58

11:23:59

Sam Fisher was driving in his Landcruiser. He was lost and he had broken his Operation Satellite, OPSAT for short, and he was not happy about it. Now, 3rd Echelon couldn't find out where he was, and neither could he. As he was driving along the desolate path, he saw a group of guards, surrounding 4 boxes. The boxes were more like crates, the type that people ship airplane parts in. Sam thought that is was weird to have 4 crates of airplane parts in the middle of the desert, so he went to investigate. He left the engine of his Landcruiser running, and donned his stealth suit, which Sam thought made him look like a comic book superhero. But out of nowhere, he heard the explosion of gunfire. Sam felt the bullets pushing the air around them toward him, so he turned around. His face met the wrong end of an AK-47.

"Any last words?" the man with the gun asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied. "Your mom."

Sam did a back flip, dodging the incoming bullets, and kicked the weapon away. Then he spinned in the air and hit the man in the face with his other foot. Sam landed on the ground and leaped forward for the gun, but then another AK-47 wielding foe had decided to appear.

"You left your headlights on."

"So I can see you better in the dark, my dear."

Sam had what he was going to do next in his mind for hours. It was a new Krav Maga technique that he wanted to test out. He would kick the man in the groin, do a back kick to the person sneaking up behind him with the same foot. But he never got too.

11:40:23

11:40:24

11:40:25

11:40:26

Someone, somewhere, was logging onto a computer. He opened a saved document entitled "Alex's Most wanted list". On every page, a different name was typed on it, 10 names in all. Some were typed in black font, and some in red font. Most of the names were in red font. He went to page 2, where Alex's 2nd most wanted man's name was typed. He highlighted the name, and changed its black font to red font.

"Only Jack Bauer to go." Alex Whitmore whispered to himself.

11:47:16

11:47:17

11:47:18

11:47:19

The 4 men spoke to each other using Blue tooth headsets. One of the four had decided that time was of the essence, and the essence was now. A fifth man, the leader, was sitting in the lobby. He stood up, took out a gun from a shoulder holster, and fired at the ceiling. The weapon was an Israeli Special-Forces issued Uzi. 100 bullets per second. One of the fastest firing weapons in the world. It had been made to kill, and kill it would. The man who wielded it was not Israeli, nor was he in any Special-Forces. But he still had access to it. His leader would arrange anything for a certain price. The price for the weapons was a life. Jack Bauer's career record was lengthy, but it would end today. And it would end with a suicide bomb.

11:59:57

11:59:58

11:59:59

12:00:00


End file.
